The night is silent, the house woefully empty. It's cavernous rooms and hallways seem to absorb any trace of sound, seeming to go beyond silence. Silence is merely a lack of noise, yet this moment contains something only explainable as a stifled noise, with a nothingness so silent that it roars upon your ears, leaving you deaf to anything other than the void of silence.
The night is dark, the house terribly foreboding. It is the dark that has long roared across the ages, the dark that has not been tamed by a trace of light. Elsewhere, a solitary light may tame the dark into a submissive void, but here, an absolute lack of light creates a primeval dark, the dark in a home similar to the dark of a cave. Absolute, inky black peers back as one peers across the room, and nothing but the dark separates one from any possible tragedy.
The night is empty, the house filled with possibilities. Who knows what lies in the dark of the night? Minds conjure fanciful images of horror, yet we know these not to be true. Yet, when one stares into the maw of such a terrifying dark, it is not voluntary, but rather involuntary that the mind begins to work. In the dark, one knows not if he is alone or not, yet one knows not whether the former or the latter is preferable.
This is where I live. This is where I sleep. In several hours, it shall be transformed into a palace of light and wonder, but for the moment, this is where I reside.
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